Fashion’d by Heaven and by art So is she, that she makes the heart Ache and o’erflow with tears, that grace So lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while,) The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stir Passion to be her minister: Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, ‘Ah, Lord, for Thy love’s sake, Give not this darling child of Thine To care less reverent than mine!’ And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee; And, so, my life was sunlit spray And tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw near My Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none Gleam’d like the lightning in the sun; Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though love Lives orphan’d on, when hope is dead,) And, out of my immediate dread And crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err: I’ve lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think What cup of life I sought to drink! The bold, said I, have climb’d to bliss Absurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so great A heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man’s desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will be That she will wait, when she shall see. This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yet Quite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hope A superstitious horoscope! And still, though something in her face Portended ‘No!’ with such a grace It burthen’d me with thankfulness, Nothing was credible but ‘Yes.’ Therefore, through time’s close pressure bold, I praised myself, and boastful told My deeds at Acre; strain’d the chance I had of honour and advance In war to come; and would not see Sad silence meant, ‘What’s this to me?’ When half my precious hour was gone, She rose to meet a Mr. Vaughan; And, as the image of the moon Breaks up, within some still lagoon That feels the soft wind suddenly, Or tide fresh flowing from the sea, And turns to giddy flames that go Over the water to and fro, Thus, when he took her hand to-night, Her lovely gravity of light Was scatter’d into many smiles And flatting weakness. Hope beguiles No more my heart, dear Mother. He, By jealous looks, o’erhonour’d me. With nought to do, and fondly fain To hear her singing once again, I stay’d, and turn’d her music o’er; Then came she with me to the door. ‘Dearest Honoria,’ I said, (By my despair familiar made,) ‘Heaven bless you!’ Oh, to have back then stepp’d And fallen upon her neck, and wept, And said, ‘My friend, I owe you all I am, and have, and hope for. Call For some poor service; let me prove To you, or him here whom you love, My duty. Any solemn task, For life’s whole course, is all I ask!’ Then she must surely have wept too, And said, ‘My friend, what can you do!’ And I should have replied, ‘I’ll pray ‘For you and him three times a-day, And, all day, morning, noon, and night, My life shall be so high and right That never Saint yet scaled the stairs Of heaven with more availing prayers!’ But this (and, as good God shall bless Somehow my end, I’ll do no less,) I had no right to speak. Oh, shame, So rich a love, so poor a claim! My Mother, now my only friend, Farewell. The school-books which you send I shall not want, and so return. Give them away, or sell, or burn. I’ll write from Malta. Would I might But be your little Child to-night, And feel your arms about me fold, Against this loneliness and cold!

VI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM

The folly of young girls! They doff Their pride to smooth success, and scoff At far more noble fire and might That woo them from the dust of fight But, Frederick, now the storm is past, Your sky should not remain o’ercast. A sea-life’s dull, and, oh, beware Of nourishing, for zest, despair. My Child, remember, you have twice Heartily loved; then why not thrice, Or ten times? But a wise man shuns To cry ‘All’s over,’ more than once. I’ll not say that a young man’s soul Is scarcely measure of the whole Earthly and Heavenly universe, To which he inveterately prefers The one beloved woman. Best Speak to the senses’ interest, Which brooks no mystery nor delay: Frankly reflect, my Son, and say, Was there no secret hour, of those Pass’d at her side in Sarum Close, When, to your spirit’s sick alarm, It seem’d that all her marvellous charm Was marvellously fled? Her grace Of voice, adornment, movement, face Was what already heart and eye Had ponder’d to satiety; Amid so the good of life was o’er, Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair, Or style of putting back her chair, Restored the heavens. Gather thence The loss-consoling inference. Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles, With lovely motions and sweet smiles, Which while they please us pass away, The spirit to lofty thoughts that stay And lift the whole of after-life, Unless you take the vision to wife, Which then seems lost, or serves to slake Desire, as when a lovely lake Far off scarce fills the exulting eye Of one athirst, who comes thereby, And inappreciably sips The deep, with disappointed lips. To fail is sorrow, yet confess That love pays dearly for success! No blame to beauty! Let’s complain Of the heart, which can so ill sustain Delight. Our griefs declare our fall, But how much more our joys! They pall With plucking, and celestial mirth Can find no footing on the earth, More than the bird of paradise, Which only lives the while it flies. Think, also, how ’twould suit your pride To have this woman for a bride. Whate’er her faults, she’s one of those To whom the world’s last polish owes A novel grace, which all who aspire To courtliest custom must acquire. The world’s the sphere she’s made to charm, Which you have shunn’d as if ’twere harm. Oh, law perverse, that loneliness Breeds love, society success! Though young, ’twere now o’er late in life To train yourself for such a wife; So she would suit herself to you, As women, when they marry, do. For, since ’tis for our dignity Our lords should sit like lords on high, We willingly deteriorate To a step below our rulers’ state; And ’tis the commonest of things To see an angel, gay with wings, Lean weakly on a mortal’s arm! Honoria would put off the charm Of lofty grace that caught your love, For fear you should not seem above Herself in fashion and degree, As in true merit. Thus, you see, ’Twere little kindness, wisdom none, To light your cot with such a sun.

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